


Psyche

by OccasionallyCreative



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Blindfolds, Body Worship, Eros and Psyche, F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Praise Kink, Trust Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-22 10:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12479232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OccasionallyCreative/pseuds/OccasionallyCreative
Summary: Sherlock, the god of love, is a soldier to his sister Eurus, the goddess of love. When Hera is offended by a mortal king's proclamation that his daughter Molly surpasses her in beauty and intelligence, Hera enlists Eurus to mete out punishment on the mortal girl. The Moirai, however, have grown sick of the goddess of love and her brother playing with Fate, and have devised their own punishment for Sherlock.





	Psyche

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cutebutpsycho](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cutebutpsycho/gifts).



> This is a fill of Cutebutpsycho's prompt, which was "Greek mythology. Eurus is Aphrodite -- goddess of beauty and love, but in that gods playing games way. Sherlock is Eros. Molly is Psyche" and what was supposed to be a quick prompt fill became an absolute monster. _You're welcome._
> 
> This writing style is different for me, as I was trying to go for the arch, floral, emotional language belonging to previous tellings of Greek myths. I also took a lot of artistic license with the depiction of the gods and the original story itself, with some inspiration taken from the '81 movie, "Clash of the Titans" which is an epic if only for the great Maggie Smith delivering the line "He once tried to ravish me disguised as a cuttlefish!" with fantastic aplomb.

The branches of the trees were tangled, the season of winter upon them. Beyond them, the inky blue of night shone silver with the stars. Her eyes swept down towards the grass. Crisp spring leaves lay scattered on the forest floor, black and blue in the evening light. Her chains rattled as she moved, trying to shift, trying to escape the destiny the Fates had bestowed upon her.

 _A beast…_ whispered the Oracle in Eurus’ temple as she had stared into the flames glowing brightly. _A beast shall take her for a bride…_

Her father, a king who had battled hundreds, made gold fields run red in the hot sun, had been at last felled by his own boasts. His own arrogance. Molly screeched, but the sound didn’t echo through the forest before her. They’d chained her, gagged her. A funeral for a wedding, the ocean winds to marry her.

_There shall her husband take her._

Her father wept as she screamed, every word muffled to a single shriek, her anger mistook for pleas.

The metal of the chains bit her wrist. She yelped, sliding again her wrist against the cuff, balling her fingers up into a fist.

“Stop.”

Molly paused, looking up. The voice echoed through the trees. Its timbre was deep, its tone sharp. Molly flexed her fingers out, the chains rattling again.

In the dark, she narrowed her eyes. The light of stars only gave way to a silhouette. An indiscernible shape. The shadow moved forward. Jagged moonlight fell on its body. Moonlight showed her a man, but with his face remained in shadow.

Her throat felt dry. She swallowed.

“Who are you?”

* * *

Sherlock did not reply, scanning the poor creature. Her destiny had been marked out by the Fates, to live a quiet life as Queen, to bring wealth and prosperity before dying in her bed. If only her stupid dolt of a father had kept quiet, and not thought him powerful enough to anger the gods. Looking at her, he looked at her with the same contempt he felt for her idiot father.

Slowly, he approached.

“As beautiful as Hera,” Sherlock muttered. He chuckled, circling the mortal. Her father was as delusional as he was arrogant. She was plain, an unnoticeable creature, her cheekbones high enough to perhaps consider her pallid, with dull brown eyes that carried evidence of tears. She had the look of a woman destined to live out a quiet life, with a quiet husband.

“You should be grateful for your father,” he said, stopping before the mortal, staring at her.

A gag had been tied around her mouth, along with the chains. She was a coward too then, as well as plain if her father had thought her low enough to run away.

Reaching forward, he pulled the gag from her mouth, letting it hang around her neck. She remained quiet, lowering her head.

“I submitted to my father’s will.” She spoke softly, and he blinked at her words. “Until I could no longer. Who are you?”

“Follow me,” he replied, turning his back to her. He flicked his wrist, heard the loosening of her chains, followed by the shuffle of her feet as she kept up with him.

Naïve.

* * *

To a palace, he took her. A palace trapped between Olympus and the mortals, where seasons overlapped. Through doors and down corridors, she followed him, without tears or questions. She had some courage. That was not to say he thought her brave. He could sense her fear, for mortals were easy to read. He heard it in her shaking breaths, and, glancing over his shoulder, saw it in her clenched fists, and her arms wrapped around her waist.

There was an ironic beauty to the easiness of reading, observing, a mortal. It was what made them so fun, tangling up their destinies, veering them away from the straight course set for them by the Fates. Destiny was held in high regard by the Fates, the Furies, and the other gods listened to them. Lust was the only thing in the universe impervious to them. Mortals and gods alike would abandon entire galaxies in pursuit of undying love if they promised it to each other enough times.

So, no. She was not brave; to him, she was foolhardy.

The bedchamber doors opened as he approached, creaking on their hinges. It was deliberately sparser than the rest of the palace. Only the bed itself was the centrepiece, its four posts shrouded in lilac gossamer, beyond which lied sheets of silk and cotton covers.

Sherlock remained in the shadows as the mortal passed him. Her features softened, shimmering through the gossamer veils as she tentatively sat on the bed.

“I dreamed of a bed like this…”

Sherlock blinked at her words, and sank further back into the shadows, watching as the mortal leaned forward, reaching out. The gossamer moved under her fingertips like calm ocean water. “It stood in the middle of water. Foul water, that you’d find in a swamp. A monster greeted me. I remember… his teeth were— sharp, a lion’s mouth… His eyes— yellow. I didn’t… but I… I did my duty. I lay before him like a wife to a husband. The monster changed then. Then he wore the armour of my father’s soldiers. A human’s eyes in a human skull. And he loved me like a husband loves a wife. I woke at the sound of the morning crow, the morning of my wedding, with tears streaming down my face.”

The mortal carried hatred in her eyes. It had been a glimmer before, which was something carried by all humans. It hardened, as her grip on the gossamer did, and as crystalline tears softened her cheeks.

She hated her father, most of all, for his idiotic bragging. His courtiers too, for involving themselves in his selfishness and worshipping at her feet for the beauty and intelligence their king had proclaimed she possessed, instead of at the altars of the gods.

Standing still in the shadows of the chamber, Sherlock watched her lay amongst the silks and cotton, her long brown hair spilt out over her neck, across her chest, her pale hand tucked underneath her cheek as she rolled onto her side. As her breaths softened, he reached back, retrieving his bow.

* * *

“So, this is it? Your punishment?” Hera, the queen of the gods and goddesses, spat her fury, her orange-fire hair adorned with silver and gold, her green robes swirling around her feet as she looked up towards Eurus, away from the miniature stone arena whereupon the gods looked upon the mortals and their play, the features of the mortals carved into terracotta. “My husband refuses to punish his precious mortals for my offence, I ask you for justice, and _this_ is what she gets?”

Hera snarled, staring at the sleeping terracotta statue. Eurus tilted her head, a light sound at the back of her throat which became a delicate hum, her fingertips running over the unending shelves of terracotta statues that crowded the small arena.

She reached out, through stars and galaxies that she and her fellow gods commanded, to the shadows of the bedchamber where her brother remained still, her soldier waiting for orders.

He caught her presence on the whisper of the Zephyr wind, tilting his head, straightening his back.

 _Do it now_ , Eurus commanded, her voice always sweet and lilting. She chuckled. _I have found her husband. I shall send him to her in her dreams._

Turning her attention to the arena, surrounded by the white columns of Olympus, Eurus stared with a growing smile at the figure in her hands.

“Your son is a handsome, skilled warrior, Hera,” she said, smoothing her thumb over his face. Hera snarled, stepping forward.

“Eurus—”

“Your word is binding, Hera, and so is mine,” Eurus explained, raising her right arm, the magical glowing bounds over both of their forearms a reminder to the goddess queen. Hera was silenced then. Slowly, tears began to flow down her face. Eurus’ smile grew ever wider as she stroked a thin line with her fingernail down Typhon’s back.

“The mortals say that to see a god weep,” she mused, “the universe must collapse first.”

The figure in her hands changed. A nose became a snout, delicate blue eyes became yellowed. Nails into claws. A strong, fine warrior’s physique crumbled into a hunchback. Skin gnarled, the scars of many battles raised to the surface, no longer shimmering and gleaming but oozing, bleeding with no end.

“This,” said Eurus, as the figure in her hand writhed and wailed, terracotta mouth open in a roar, sharp teeth growing between thin lips, “shall be her husband.”

She closed her eyes, passing Hera, who wept for her son, the bounds around her wrist tightening whenever she tried to reach for him. She found her brother once more through the Zephyr wind.

 _Do it now,_ she urged, her heart lifting.

* * *

The Zephyr wind wrapped around his body, urging him closer to the bed and the mortal girl. Sherlock smirked, his toned arms lit by the moonlight through the windows of the bedchamber. His face was half in shadow as he pushed back the gossamer. The mortal slept soundly. No nightmares to harm her this night.

Something deep within his body stirred. It was a numb sensation that made him half-awake. Someone so plain to possess a fool for a father, who had condemned her to this fate. He reached for the mortal woman, his forefinger stroking the hollow of her cheek. The mortal stirred.

Sherlock drew back, focusing on readying his bow, removing it from his shoulder, testing it. He knew the ways possessed by mortals. The potency of their lust, and how it dazzled the other gods, even his sister when she was green and innocent. He was the only one to escape such a fate, for he'd seen his fellow gods mourn the mortals that died while the love bore to them by the gods was still a fire. 

Love was a mortal luxury.

 _Do it now_ , urged his sister.

Sherlock reached back, scrambling for an arrow, fixing it to his bow. He raised the bow, drew back the arrow, aiming squarely at the mortal’s heart.

All at once, her brown hair became the galaxy stars. Her skin the moon, her lips a red rose. He imagined her naked, her body on display, her heart his to keep, care for, protect—

No! Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, turning his back on the mortal. No, no, no! If he did not look, if he didn’t think of her—

But he did think of her—

He wanted her—

He would possess her—

He would have her—

 _No_ —

“Oh dear, sweet Sherlock,” whispered Chione, giggling with her sisters, the Aura, ghosts surrounding him, their hands sliding over his shoulders, through his hair.

“We come bearing a message,” teased one, whispering in his ear, her ghostly figure a breeze wrapped around his body.

“From the Fates,” sighed another.

“Would you know your destiny?” questioned the third. Their grip on him strengthened, their bodies shifting from the corporeal to the real, their beauty no longer transcendent but permanent, of the Earth, their skin sweet-smelling and the air around them crisp.

“Leave me,” Sherlock snapped, breaking free from their grip. He didn’t care for destiny, he never cared for destiny, he only cared about breaking it, tangling one strand with another, proof that the gods controlled everything, whatever destiny might dictate.

He cared, he realised with a low feeling in his stomach, about her fate. He knelt by her bedside, took her pale hand in his and kissed her knuckles, softly, sweetly. Like a lover.

He could be her lover. He could take her, kiss the gentle mouth and embrace her.

But she would wake weeping, as her story foretold, and to make her weep—but she breathed then, stirring in her bed, the gossamer floating in the breezes of the Aura, and her pale skin shone, glowing in the moonlight. Suddenly, he cared not for tears. He only cared about having her…

“No!” He roared up, turning on the Aura. They smiled back at him, their flesh fading once more to apparitions.

Sherlock held out his hand.

* * *

Through crystal lines of destinies, some strong with a babe’s first breath, others fragile enough to crush from a single sweeping touch, Sherlock walked the cave path to the home of the Moirai. The cave's white stone encased the three white-robed women, who sat as quiet as death among their tools.

“You have a message for me,” he said.

From her spinning wheel, Clotho looked up. Her milky-white eyes were serene while her feet and fingers worked, weaving life and death into a thread.

“You look pale,” she said, with a gentle hum in her voice. “You sicken for something.”

“Someone, sister,” Atropos chided. Her white robes were draped against her body in material that seemed made of the moon itself, ethereal as she moved. Her shears were strapped to a belt around her hips. “The god who plays with destiny has no time for patience.”

Lachesis sat by her sister Clotho, studiously measuring each thread that her sister spun, saying nothing to her sisters’ malicious display.

“Perhaps it is another goddess?” Clotho laughed at her own suggestion.

“A mortal girl,” Atropos said, her own milky-white eyes focusing on Sherlock, and a rare smile touching her lips. “Now the god of love knows his misery.”

“By the heavens, tell me your damn message,” Sherlock said sharply. The Moirai were before him, but all his heart yearned for was a mortal trapped between two worlds.

“As you play with the destinies we lay out, we play with the destiny of the gods,” Atropos explained, after a silence. Her milky-white eyes gleamed like marble. “Where once your destiny was to condemn humans with lust, your destiny will forever be this girl. Do not attempt to change your path – the deed is done.”

Her gaze descended to his hand; his fingertips. Sherlock glanced down. A single scratch on his thumb, bleeding crimson red.

“The Moirai, tempting fate – it’s hardly believable,” he murmured, his mouth crooked with a shallow grin. Lachesis raised her head.

“We do not tempt fate. We merely make it,” she said.

His own arrow.

And he had marked himself with it.

* * *

 

He, Typhon, a great warrior, was now a monster. Horns grew from his temple, a python’s tail from his back, iron claws claiming his hands. In shame, he fled to the furthest swamp, isolating himself among the foul-smelling water. His mother, the great Hera, sent to him mortal servants blind to his horror, who bathed him and murmured sweet things in his ear. She built him a palace and showered him with riches. She gifted upon him a temple, where would stand the gods to watch over him.

He knelt before her statue and pleaded.

“What sin?” he asked, as pains wracked his body.

 _None but the sin of being my son,_ snarled the great goddess.

 _Be soothed_ , teased Eurus, goddess of love as his body was slammed still with pain, the transformation, his torture, not yet done. _You will have a bride, and she shall love._

With these torments, he wailed and roared through the night.

The god of love came to him next.

Stood next to him, a mortal woman with a mouth delicate and skin that smelled of sweet spring. Jewels in a gold necklace hung around her neck.

“She is yours,” said the god of love. “Her name is Psyche, and she shall love you as a mortal woman loves any mortal man.”

Typhon gazed upon Psyche’s face, filled with kindness and warmth, and felt only fear. If she gazed upon another, saw for herself the wretched torture that was done to him, surely her love would fade. 

But she continued to love him. Despite what she saw. She smiled at his kisses, sang when he bid, cooked his meals and whispered devotion.

Soon, he looked upon his servants with hate. Their comforts felt to him now hollow, their smiles hollower still.

Nothing compared to the love borne to him by Psyche.

In rage, he made them bleed, crushed their skulls, inflicted upon them the torture he had been given.

 _What sin, my son?_ asked his mother.

“None but the sin of being mortal,” Typhon growled as his Psyche sang.

* * *

She woke to a winter sunshine, but with it was summer heat. Molly rose, rubbing her eyes of sleep. Pieces of the dream came back to her. The forest, the shadow. She glanced down at her hand. In the night, she’d dreamed of a thorn, and the cut on her thumb when she’d touched it. Her fingertips were unblemished. Another part of the dream then, she surmised, and she made her way out of the chamber.

The palace had made its way into her dreams. In her dream, she walked them like she had known them all her life. For the morning, she found herself following the hazy memories of the dream, discovering and recognising, mapping out the labyrinth of the palace’s corridors and chambers in her head.

Throughout, her fear remained. She disliked being quite so scared, so afraid. Weeping, chained and cursing her father’s name. 

Molly had been exposed to the ocean winds, and she hated it. She wasn’t a coward. She’d lived much of her life with courage; she’d met with commanders and nobles on her father’s behalf, written his accounts, kept house and done it all without complaint. 

A lesser being, her father, hid away from such responsibilities.

It was her father that was the true coward.

Perhaps that was why she had followed the shadow here. She’d wanted to show that she might’ve felt fear, but she would never run away.

As brilliant as Zeus, he had called himself. To take her, remove her from his side, was the punishment of the gods. Now he would have to prove himself; be the commander and king she had quietly, obediently helped him become.

The last room she found was at the end of the last corridor. Pushing open the heavy doors, she met shelf upon shelf of rolls, scripture in ink and parchment. By the hearth, a chair stood for someone to sit and read. A low circular table stood in the centre, scrolls already laid out or pushed to the side. Evidence of someone else, voraciously reading.

Someone who had come before her, then. Molly approached the table, glancing over the ink. At first glance, the language was unfamiliar to her. But as she looked, the symbols shifted, turning on the page. Molly’s eyes roved over the page as the language became her own. She looked up, seeing again the scrolls and books that were stacked on the shelves all around her.

To one shelf, she ran, unrolling scrolls and passing her eyes over the ink. Each one was the same. If it did not fit to her language, it became her language, unlocking itself to be read. Molly knelt on the marble floor, surrounded by the shifting symbols, flickering back and forth as her attention flicked from book to book, amazed at the magic before her.

The afternoon sun grew lower, the sky bleeding into red, but her fascination did not ebb away. Molly sank ever deeper, smiling as she read of science and philosophy from places unknown, that had only ever been spoken of in ways that made them sound like temporary beings, a hint of life before they faded, their story ended.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Molly’s body jerked up in surprise, parchment sliding from her lap as she looked around the darkness, alert to the new presence.

“Who are you?”

“No doubt you’ve discovered the secret of the library. Hm. East Asian philosophy,” mused the voice, a low baritone. “Yes, you definitely have.”

A strange relief filled Molly as she recognised the timbre, the rhythm of the presence. Her eyes narrowed, trying to find his face in the faint moonlight given to her by the narrow window, tucked between the rows and rows of shelves.

But as she remained in the chair, in the shadows of the library, so did the stranger.

She flinched when she felt his fingers slide against her jaw.

The stranger paused.

“Do you trust me?”

For a moment, she considered a lie. But the stranger’s touch withdrew from her in the growing silence, and she was moved to tell the truth.

“No.”

Heat, a soft glowing warmth like that of firelight, moved closer to her. She saw the shadow of the stranger kneel at her side. Through the dark, she saw him hold out his hand.

“Will you?”

Something stirred in the low of her belly. Her mouth went dry as she answered.

“Yes.”

It was strange, yet intoxicating, her head spinning, to unleash such an intimate act upon a stranger. Somehow, she felt she knew him. Knew that, above all, he would not harm her.

Her fingers felt small against his, but his grip was gentle. Molly stood, circling the stranger until she was stood behind him.

Trust, you must understand, is an absolute. For Molly, trust was a broken thing, for as she had built up the power of her father for his generals, she had built up his power in her mind. The only creatures more powerful were the gods. To compare oneself to a god was to shatter the illusion, break it as if you might break a plate, and that was what her father had done.

And in dreams, it is easy to believe in absolutes.

Sinking to her knees, she softly lay back on the marble stone. Her heart hammered, shivering in the wintry night air.

“You think me a dream.”

Molly’s heart thrummed hard. She felt her pulse at her temple and breathed out, trying to calm herself.

“This only happens in dreams,” she replied. Her voice echoed gently on the walls. Above, she saw the dark, her memory drawing for her the intricate patterns of the ceiling, beams crisscrossing over and under one another in arches.

A cold breeze moved through the library. She shivered, but then her stranger came closer. She felt his fingers run through her hair, slowly, carefully. Again, and again, until the sudden strike of fear left her. She felt almost without a body, anchored only by the feel of her stranger’s fingers combing her hair.

His thumb drew the line of her jaw, swooping up to stroke the hollow of her cheek.

“You see that moonlight? Speak to me,” said her stranger, with sudden sternness. He pressed his fingertips against her temple, turning her head to face the narrow window before them. She was laid in the dark, and it felt to be another universe. Such a simple thing as a window.

“Yes,” she replied, desire warming in her belly.

“You have not dreamed that moonlight,” said her stranger. “Do you think you could?”

His other hand cupped her neck, turning her head back towards him. Her eyes met only the shadows of a face, still indiscernible, and frustration pooled, sliding into desire. She wondered how her stranger would touch her; taste her.

The stranger’s touch left her neck. His fingertips danced over the skin of her clavicle.

“This is real,” he whispered, his breaths hot on her neck.

His fingers left her hair, joining with his other hand at her waist. In a smooth ‘V’, he pushed against the cloth of her dress, up from the low of her belly to the valley between her breasts. Molly sighed, her back arching to follow the path.

The rope at her waist unraveled from its knot with a quick flick of his wrist. Her robe bunched underneath the touches her stranger bestowed; through the fine cotton, his hands covered her breasts, his palms sliding over her covered skin. Molly panted softly, moans squeaking out from her tongue. Her mind filled with hazy images of what it would be like for her stranger to touch her, truly. His fingers sliding into her rather than over her; his tongue sinking into her heat. She whined, pressing her thighs together. Still, he only touched her upper body. One hand snaked up towards her shoulder, pinning her down. His body, his torso, loomed up over her.

The images sharpened then, briefly, with her sense of fear. She did not trust this man, and yet she had given him her trust absolutely. If he took the trust too far—if he pushed her into... It would become a duty, and she almost wept at the thought.

“I cannot,” whispered her stranger, seemingly reading her thoughts. She followed the sound, turning her cheek towards his face. In the shadows, she saw a full bottom lip, a Cupid’s bow. Kissable. Her stranger leaned forward. His hand gently cupped her neck once more, in the dark of the library, their own world. Timeless. His fingers stroked her nape again and again, over and over. Soft, rhythmic. Comforting. Their lips were inches from one another, hovering with a disquiet peace between them.

Molly reached forward. She reached for his hand at her neck; she slid her touch downwards, past his wrist, his forearm.

His sigh trembled in the air.

Then the stone was silk, gossamer hung above her, and she was alone with the sunrise edging over a horizon without a season.

* * *

She stood at the end of her bed the next night, staring up at stars, and did not flinch when she felt her stranger’s fingers gently brush hers. Darkness enveloped her soon after, the knot of the blindfold fixed at the back of her head.

His hand touched her left side, curving over the round of her hip, steering her to turn. She saw nothing but only felt. His heat, as he stood before her, unmoving, undecided perhaps, about what it was he wished to do to her. Desire filled her with every drawn-out beat of the silence. It jolted inside her as she heard the shuffle of his feet on the stone floor. He was kneeling. To her. Not to a king, or a king’s daughter, but to her.

The desire, how it warmed her body, wormed its way upwards towards her heart. Her mind hummed with that knowledge, but still part of it willed the fear to come.

Yet when he touched her, starting with his thumb circling her ankle like the shackles that she had tried to escape on the cliff face, there was no terror in her heart. When his touch moved upwards, curving over her shin, the sides of her thighs, she only sighed and smiled, tilting her head back, swaying towards his touch.

“Stand straight,” he ordered with amusement in his voice. She smiled wider, adjusting her stance. She was happy to obey if he kept touching her.

How he touched her was like no other. She had shaken hands with commanders, curtsied to wives of the military men and the kings, but her stranger touched her like she was from another world. Not a god, but of some other time, of some unreachable moment that she might fade away into. He touched her like it was the last time he would ever do so.

He touched her like he worshipped her.

It was dangerous.

It was lethal.

It was intoxicating.

His fingertips drew a line up the side of her thighs over her hips, ghosting over her robe as he stood, moving to stand behind her. His other hand wound up towards her shoulders, surrounding her in an embrace, pulling her towards his chest. Little as she was, she felt through her shoulder blades a lithe, toned body. Another piece to add to her memory, the image she continued to assemble beyond the blindfold.

She felt his breath on her cheek just as his free hand swept down towards her groin, making her jolt. Molly tilted her head, exposing her neck to his mouth. But his mouth kissed the line of her jaw, her cheek. His lips hovered at the corner of her mouth. Molly grew still, her breaths shallow.

A line, with his free hand, he drew. The line where her inner thigh and groin met, he swept his fingertip up towards her bellybutton.

His lips swept up from her mouth towards her temple and pressed a warm, dry kiss there, then her cheek. At the arch of her brow, he kissed her too.

When she awoke the next morning, alone and watching the sunrise as she ate, she knew her stranger was a dream.

* * *

“Come here,” he bid that night, a dream returned. Her stranger’s shadow stood by the doorway, out of the way of the moonlight. Molly smiled as she obediently approached, sinking to her knees and bowing her head, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her skin was bare to him, already stripped away by his hands. He had unravelled her belt, pushed her robe off her body, dropping kisses to her exposed shoulders before he sank back into his shadows and ordered her with silken voice to turn.

She heard him crouch before her, hearing the low hum in his throat, seeing his Adam’s apple bob briefly before her blindfold was wrapped around her eyes. His hand smoothed over her hair and he tucked it under her chin, lifting her head.

“Have you been listening?”

She nodded. He hummed in response.

“I’m not entirely sure you have.” His breathing ghosted over her lips. “I want to play a game with you, little mortal.”

He stood then, and a panic gripped her. She tried to school her face into calm, but her pulse quickened, the loss of touch, contact, the thing that grounded her lost so soon—

“Look at you,” he murmured. She mellowed, calming from the moment of panic but her hands trembled in her lap. She heard his footsteps and felt his hands cover hers. She grew still as he kissed her knuckles, the inside of her palms. “Molly. I want you to follow me.”

“How will I find you?” asked she.

“I trust you,” replied he.

So that was the game. Hesitantly, as she heard his receding footsteps, Molly got onto her hands and knees. There was no thought in her mind of appearance. He trusted her. Her stranger had bestowed the same absolute she had bestowed upon him. Her trembling sighs came from a place of excitement, of growing pleasure, desire spreading out from her groin to all over her body, as she inched forward. Forever, it seemed, she crawled down corridors and around corners, but never did she give thought to stopping.

The stranger, her stranger, trusted her. To know it was an ecstasy felt in dreams.

The ecstasy flooded her with want, yearning for him when she turned a corner into a room where the rustle of pages caught in a summer wind told her where he was. Crawling forwards, she leaned forward. Her cheek brushed against his knee and she sighed happily, kneeling before him, resting her cheek on his thigh.

She knew his smile by the gentle chuckle. He slid his fingers into her hair, scratching at her scalp. She hummed, contented.

For a silence, they remained that way. His fingers stroking the thin tendrils of her hair, the bare skin of her shoulder, the high of her back. Slowly, Molly felt herself drifting into a separate kind of bliss, away from his, her soul sliding out from her body, looking upon the scene.

Even then, she still saw not her stranger’s features.

“I see your thoughts, Molly.” She blinked behind her blindfold, lifting her head. She felt, more than saw, his smile become a frown. “Do you still believe me a dream?”

The silence encroached then, poison where once it was a feast.

Molly swallowed.

“Yes.”

“Stand.”

With wobbling legs, she obeyed her stranger.

“I ask for trust. I ask you to trust that this is real,” he stood before her then, not touching her. His fury sparked off his skin. “That I am real. Do you trust me, Molly?”

“No,” she lied.

Suddenly, she was pushed back, his hands on her shoulders, and it was the silken covers of her bed that she felt underneath her.

Over her, the heat of his body loomed. His anger was his want, his want his anger. It was dizzying, and Molly gasped, exposing her neck to him, her arms linking around his neck, trusting him, bringing him, his lips, closer to her skin. Her nails drawing scratches into his flesh as his teeth sank into her skin, a mark on her. She felt his cock against her thigh and she moaned, pushing her legs apart, exposing herself, her hot wet centre, to him.

He slid his fingers into her centre, savage where once he was gentle, and she screamed for it, bucking her hips up at the sudden entrance.

Then he slowed. He rolled off her to lie on his side, his fingers still within her, stroking in minute, slow gestures. His voice descended towards her ear, his chest pressed up against her shoulder.

“Oh yes, a liar I find in you indeed, Molly.” She squeaked, her leg curling up towards her chest, exposing her further. “Your pleasure, isn’t it? Your pleasure, and your pleasure alone. You would do nothing to please me, would you? Not unless it benefitted you. No longer,” he growled. “This – is mine. It’s mine, Molly. Understand me?”

He sounded manic, half insane, and she panted, yearning for release, a spike of desire in her gut urging her on. Still his ministrations were lazy, shallow, languid while she thrashed and whined, clasping, clawing at his bicep, trying to guide him deeper inside.

“You will come for me only. Tell me. Mine.”

“Yours,” she panted. “Yours – only yours—”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Yes, Molly. Now, tell me—” he bit the shell of her ear and she yelped, just as he slid his fingers deeper inside her, pulsating his thumb against her clit, “do you trust me?”

“ _Yes!_ ”

The knot of her blindfold fell away from the back of her head. The slow encroaching dawn fell through the windows, sliding over the ceiling above. Together they lay in shadows. Her stranger’s cock felt heavy and hard against her hip.

In the silence, they panted, breaths mingling. She felt sweat lingering on her skin. Her stranger lazily peppered her shoulder and neck with kisses. Her neck throbbed where he had marked her.

Gradually, her eyes slipped closed and she clung onto her stranger knowing that, in the morning, she would wake alone.

“I know what you want,” whispered her stranger as she slipped half into sleep. His nose was in her hair. With the pad of his thumb, he languidly drew a circle around her hardened nipple. She shivered underneath the touch, sleep leaving her. A tension stirred in the room, surrounding them like the Moirai surrounded a newborn babe to decide a destiny.

“I want to know your face,” she confessed, reaching behind her for any part of him, so she might—hold onto him. That, in the moment, was all she wished for.

“Is that all?” he asked tentatively, shrunken back from the savagery he’d displayed.

“I want you to love me,” she said, and her voice shook as she spoke. “Like a husband loves a wife.”

“I’m incapable of such things.” He spoke bluntly, without malice nor tenderness. “A creature like me – doesn’t love like a mortal husband.”

Molly glanced up at the ceiling; the coming dawn. The sunrise would come soon, rising from the horizon, and her stranger would leave her side. Her fingers grazed over the mark he had left, the bruise that was sore still when she touched it.

Sitting up, she straddled him.

Leaning forward, she pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his torso. Her eyes flickered up to his face, still indeterminable in the hazy dawn light, half evening, half day.

Time was shorter than ever she knew it to be. She knew she could not waste it.

He sighed a guttural sound that was almost a growl, holding her hips as she guided his cock into her.

“Don’t you see?” she asked, gradually beginning to rock against him. He moved with her, his ankles digging into the sheets, their limbs tangling clumsily with the silk covers. Molly pushed them away, leaning forward, her breasts moving with each rhythm, each rise and fall. “My stranger,” she hummed, ducking her head towards his neck, sucking on his skin as he had hers, marking him for hers as he had marked her.

“I will play no wifely part,” she insisted, rolling her hips forward, taking more of him in. Her eyes flitted up to the window. The sunlight was encroaching, stretching over the room, shadows sliding back. Her stranger’s eyes were closed with pleasure.

“Perfect…” he said softly.

“Oh… oh…” Molly moaned in reply, her body trembling as she slowed her rhythm down, grinding down upon him.

If she was careful, if she—

“Oh!” The shadows weakened. Her stranger before her moaned, his head thrown back, his hips jerking up, trying to take more of her. Molly sank deeper onto him, her voice growing in pitch as she watched the sunlight cross over his torso, up his chest.

The sunlight crossed his face.

Molly gasped, leaning forward. Her fingers splayed out against his torso as she rocked, rolling her hips, his hands descending to cup her backside, groaning, grunting as they both edged closer, oblivion barely a breath away.

Her head swam.

He was beautiful.

His lips were full, pinked by the kisses he had placed upon her. His marble pale skin was a stark contrast to the pulse at his neck; her mark. His jaw tightened as he sucked in a breath, the sharp edges of his jawline sweeping up towards a high cheekbone, sculpted to swoop back down to his full bottom lip. 

How often had he almost pressed those lips to hers? He had breathed words into her from those lips, and everything, quite suddenly, seemed gloriously, deliriously real.

She felt his fingers slide against her clit, beckoning her towards her climax and she came with tears in her eyes, babbling for him.

When she opened her eyes, panting heavily, she looked down upon him, and she found fury.

At once, she was underneath him, her arms pinned above her head.

“Do you not understand? Of course you don’t,” he spat. Looming above her, his grip hardening around her wrists, his lip curled with a snarl, his teeth sharp. “Mortals never do. Selfish beings you are, you think of nothing but yourselves. What is trust when you can satisfy your own desires, your own wants?”

And then she knew him.

“Sherlock…” she whispered, and she felt dread.

Her stranger. The god of love. The god who played with the destiny laid out by the Moirai.

“Why?” he asked.

Her tears fell from her eyes, sliding down her cheeks.

“Because… because it’s true.” His grip lessened on her wrists while her confession hung in the silence. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

“It is not you who should be sorry,” he bit out, still staring at her. His blue-green eyes scrutinised her, as if he were disbelieving that she, a mortal, could trick him as she did, then confess true feeling so openly.

They softened then. The blue-green colour mellowed, his grip on her wrists lessened. He slid back from her and, winding his arm around her shoulders, drew her close to him.

She felt him kiss the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw while they lay together in the tangled silk. “Sleep now,” he murmured, “please Molly. Sleep.”

She woke alone again. This time, she woke in her father’s palace.

No-one understood why she wept.

* * *

Eurus glared as the glowing bonds slid like snakes from her forearm, fading into the clouds of Olympus. Hera, goddess queen, stood over the arena of the humans and picked up the terracotta statue of the mortal girl.

“I have been bound, as has my son,” she said, her voice thunderous, “by your petty games, Eurus. But your game has failed. Your soldier has failed. And now, his little mortal wanders the world, in search for her lost love.”

Hera smiled. Her gaze slid over to Sherlock. He stood alone, apart from the other gods, with his bow and quiver nowhere to be seen and his head bowed.

Hera moved past Eurus, the goddess of love, to pick up the statue of her son.

“I cannot undo what has been done to him,” she said sadly, smoothing her fingers over his deformed body like he was still a babe. Perhaps he was always meant to be a monster. He had been born, after all, from her hate. Betrayed by her husband, by Zeus himself, she had fled to the Titans themselves, begging for a son stronger than the king god. They had given to her a warrior. A warrior now deformed and bound by a paltry illusion. She spoke her thoughts aloud and turned to the gods over whom she ruled.

“No longer,” she said with a smile. Gently, she placed her son’s statue among the arena. “Awaken, my son, and find your true bride.”

Down below, on Earth, Typhon roared.

The painful roar awoke the god of love. His head snapped up and he charged forward. He knew, then, the punishment Typhon would wreak.

“Stop it, stop it now! She has done nothing!”

“Exactly,” Hera replied, staring down at the arena. Her smile grew as the two statues inched closer to one another, the hunter chasing the wanderer.

“Hera…” Sherlock’s voice took on a note of desperation. “Plea… please. Mercy.”

Shrieking laughter rang around the gods. Hera’s smile faded as Eurus stood. The goddess of love’s small frame glowed with triumph. Her snaking curls of black hair that fell past her back moved as she moved, standing opposite Hera, looking down upon the arena as the goddess queen did.

“You lack patience, Hera. You always have. And so, you fail to see anything past your own pride.”

She leaned forward, picking up Typhon’s statue between her finger and thumb. She cradled him in the palms of her hands, flicking her crystal blue gaze to lock with Hera’s.

“Just as we play with the lives of the mortals, the mortals play with our lives too,” Eurus said, musing. Her grip hardened around the statue. Upon the Earth, Typhon choked and fell to his knees. Alone at the foot of a mountain, blood trickled from his mouth. Hera buckled, her grip hardening against the stone arena. A numb nothing overcame her, grief stunning her into silence. The dust of Typhon fell through Eurus’ fingers. She smiled as she moved around the arena, circling towards her brother.

Her gaze softened when she looked at him, her hand coming to touch his upper arm in comfort.

“Look at what happened, Sherlock. You loved a mortal, and she betrayed you. It is what the mortals do. We all know the day will come,” Eurus said, turning to the rest of the gods, watching with aged curiosity at the scene before them, “when their descendants will stop believing in us and that the time will come when we are forgotten. Our games? They mean nothing, Sherlock. It is useless for us to love any mortal, or guide them when all we will be is stories to them.”

The gods of Mount Olympus bowed their heads at Eurus’ speech. Silence fell over each of them.

“No.”

Sherlock’s voice was sharp, and Eurus looked up.

“Sherlock?"

"I asked her for complete trust, and yet did not trust her enough to show her my own face. Now she wanders the world... for me. Does that not tell you something, sister?"

"That she is a fool," Eurus said quickly, dismissively. Her smile, charming enough to seduce any creature, faded as quickly as it had come as her brother left her side. "Sherlock? What are you doing?”

“Ending the game,” he replied, moving away from the arena, towards the clouds that surrounded Mount Olympus. Eurus’ voice spiked with panic.

“No, no – Sherlock!”

“Goodbye, sister.”

“You – you can’t!” The goddess of love’s triumph crumbled as her brother faded from view, passing through the gates of Olympus. Her breaths shortened as she clamoured to return to the arena, watching as the mortal girl’s statue, one mortal girl, slept alone underneath an olive grove. Eurus slammed her palm against the arena as a pearl-coloured shadow descended the arena steps, approaching the theatre and the mortal.

“No! I forbid you! No! No!”

The shadow approached the statue. Down on Earth, in a sweet-smelling olive grove, Molly awoke. Her mouth was dry from heat, her clothes dusty. A shadow appeared over her face, a body in silhouette. Molly smiled as her stranger offered out his hand.

With a snarl, Eurus gripped the statue tight. Molly, as Typhon had before her, collapsed, choking as her stranger held her.

“Molly! Molly, please…” Sherlock gasped, holding her, his eyes sweeping up to the heavens. “Please…”

Eurus continued to clutch the statue tight, glaring at the pearl shadow alone in the arena. Helpless, without hope. A thrill ran through her. At least he would know her feelings, more than anyone else seemed to.

“Eurus!” All the gods bowed as one at the echoing voice, lightning striking the Earth. Eurus, hot angry tears in her eyes, clutched the statue tight to her chest, sinking slowly to her knees. She breathed hard, the sounds shaking.

Thunder rolled. Hera’s lip curled with a frown as her husband appeared before the congregation. His eyes swept over the congregation.

“Too many sins have been committed here,” he said, his voice grave. “Yes, one day, we shall be stories. But that does not mean the love we bear one another must be the only love we possess. Your brother deserves to love this mortal, Eurus. Just as much as you and I have loved any mortal before.”

Quiet, Zeus crouched before the goddess of love. Her tears dried, her anger cooling, as she lifted her ancient eyes to meet his. The statue tumbled from her hands, its surface cracked. Closing his eyes, Zeus brought the statue to his lips. The breath of life. Gifted to Molly, who woke in her lover’s arms and slowly embraced him, kissing him where he last had kissed her. The olive branches moved with the breeze and Molly laughed with relief as she kissed her god again and again.

Zeus set down the statue in the theatre of the arena. With a sigh, he drew his hand over the stone, covering the arena with a shimmering wave of light; a window in which the mortals could be seen but never touched.

“No god shall be able to penetrate it,” Zeus explained to his fellow gods. His youthful features wore an ancient smile, his eyes older still. “Ganymede shall fetch the girl, and feed her the nectar of immortal youth. That is my decree. And this is my other: this is to be our last game. From henceforth, there shall be no more. From now on, we shall be spectators only to these fair mortals.”

A sad smile crossed Zeus’s face.

“Much as it pains me,” he said softly. He waved his hand again, pulling the same window over the endless statues surrounding the stone arena. He looked up, staring at each of the gods in turn. “Eurus is correct. The follies of our youth are over. Our powers fade with each passing generation and we will indeed be immortals, standing among the humans. We shall watch their mistakes, and yearn for them to change. We will grieve their errors, and celebrate their triumphs. Above all, we shall never interfere.”

 

* * *

 

In a cottage in Sussex, a pregnant woman read a book on quantum physics while the Queen’s Speech burbled on the brand-new widescreen television. A gift from her husband, for something he’d done wrong, said her hostess with a laugh and her blue eyes twinkling.

On cue, her host arrived into the living room, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Thought you might need this, my dear,” said the hostess.

“Thank you – sorry, did you write this?” Mary asked, with astonishment, holding up the book. The hostess laughed, waving a hand.

“That old thing. Hardly worth bothering about.”

The living room door opened again, and Mary went quiet, her eyes instantly returning to the page. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her hostess start up, and the arrival to the quiet scene.

“Sorry,” John said, sheepish. “I-I, err…”

“It’s quite alright,” said her hostess tersely. She discreetly left the room, shutting the living room door behind her.

* * *

Upstairs, Molly Hooper stared through an antique window at the empty landscape of Sussex, watching the distant trails of her host’s neighbour’s chimney smoke while distantly, Christmas carols played on a CD. She warmed her hands on a mug containing what she told Mary was a cold remedy.

The bedroom door opened and shut behind her. She looked up and grinned. Her husband grinned back, his black curls flopping neatly over his forehead. She reached up as he bent down towards her, playfully mussing his hair. He pouted in return, running his fingers briefly over his hair before he ducked forward, kissing her cheek. His touch lingered, his thumb running over the sweep of her temple.

“I could see some wrinkles coming through,” he teased. She lightly swatted him, then drew him in for a tender kiss.

“How’s Mycroft?”

“Interfering,” he replied, pulling off his scarf and hanging it over the foot of the bed. His coat soon followed. “Wants me to head to Eastern Europe, of all places. Was a time when he waged war on the actual battlefield, rather than behind a desk.”

“Sally keeps him calm,” Molly replied, still idly watching the chimney smoke bleed into the crisp winter landscape.

“Don’t know why we’re talking about him anyway, Mycroft’s boring.” Molly sighed as her husband’s fingers sank against the crest of her head into her hair, massaging her scalp. She leaned against his body, sinking into the warmth.

“You’re right,” she hummed. “Far more interesting things to do.”

“Yes… now…” Her husband’s voice dropped to a whisper as she shifted forward, tilting her head as darkness fell, black silk covering her eyes, cutting off her sight with the knot sitting comfortably at the back of her head. Her husband leaned close, his breath hot against her ear.

“Do you trust me, Molly Hooper?”

**Author's Note:**

> A casting of BBC Sherlock characters as gods:  
> \- Mr Holmes: Zeus  
> \- Mrs Holmes: Hera  
> \- Sally: Calliope  
> \- Mycroft: Ares
> 
> Finally, please don't forget to leave a comment and kudos! Comments are the lifeblood of a fic writer, believe me.


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